“Oh, no, the Glory Dogs are playing Dance, Dance for the band competition, Ry12113687an!” Brendon exclaims. “What are we going to do? They took our song!”
“This is terrible news,” Ry12113687an monotones. “I need to think. We need something equally cheesy and inspirational, hopefully without any kid-unfriendly negativity about sex and drugs. How about Hum Hallelujah?”
“Uh, Ry12113687an, I don’t—“ Brendon starts to say, but the announcer is saying their name (it’s Alarm! In the Lockerroom, which Ry12113687an thought of in a moment of sheer genius) and it’s their turn to go on.
“It’s all or nothing, gang,” Brendon says to their group of blandly pretty and equally generic friends. “Eyes on the prize! Let’s give it 150%!”
“Cliché cliché cliché!” Ry12113687an adds quickly before they’re running onstage.
Time seems to slow to a stop while they’re performing. Actually, Brendon checks his watch three times, and he’s pretty sure the song took over fifteen minutes to perform.
But they kill it. They’re so good that everyone is cheering Brendon’s name, and Brendon thinks to himself loudly, in another echoing voiceover, “Wow. I’m not a loser anymore.”
And then suddenly, it’s all over, and Brendon’s eardrums are bursting in a supernova of screaming and clapping and congratulating.
“Did we win?” he asks Ry12113687an.
“Uh, no,” Ry12113687an says. “But we’re getting signed by Pete Wentz!”
“No kidding?” Brendon asks.
“We’re going to be fucking famous, Br3ndon!”
Brendon—no, it’s Br3ndon now—can feel tears pricking his eyes. He finally did it. He broke out of his loser mold in an inspirational tale for the ages. Now if he could only break out of his virgin mode—and, whoa Ry12113687an’s kissing him. Good timing, Brendon thinks to himself, and bends Ry12113687an over manfully.
“I can’t wait to see the blooper reel,” Ry12113687an mutters in Br3ndon’s ear as he kisses his way down Ry12113687an’s neck.
“What?” Br3ndon says.
“Nothing.”
(eta: sorry for the repost, just figured i should add a scene break!)
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(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-17 10:04 pm (UTC)“Oh, no, the Glory Dogs are playing Dance, Dance for the band competition, Ry12113687an!” Brendon exclaims. “What are we going to do? They took our song!”
“This is terrible news,” Ry12113687an monotones. “I need to think. We need something equally cheesy and inspirational, hopefully without any kid-unfriendly negativity about sex and drugs. How about Hum Hallelujah?”
“Uh, Ry12113687an, I don’t—“ Brendon starts to say, but the announcer is saying their name (it’s Alarm! In the Lockerroom, which Ry12113687an thought of in a moment of sheer genius) and it’s their turn to go on.
“It’s all or nothing, gang,” Brendon says to their group of blandly pretty and equally generic friends. “Eyes on the prize! Let’s give it 150%!”
“Cliché cliché cliché!” Ry12113687an adds quickly before they’re running onstage.
Time seems to slow to a stop while they’re performing. Actually, Brendon checks his watch three times, and he’s pretty sure the song took over fifteen minutes to perform.
But they kill it. They’re so good that everyone is cheering Brendon’s name, and Brendon thinks to himself loudly, in another echoing voiceover, “Wow. I’m not a loser anymore.”
And then suddenly, it’s all over, and Brendon’s eardrums are bursting in a supernova of screaming and clapping and congratulating.
“Did we win?” he asks Ry12113687an.
“Uh, no,” Ry12113687an says. “But we’re getting signed by Pete Wentz!”
“No kidding?” Brendon asks.
“We’re going to be fucking famous, Br3ndon!”
Brendon—no, it’s Br3ndon now—can feel tears pricking his eyes. He finally did it. He broke out of his loser mold in an inspirational tale for the ages. Now if he could only break out of his virgin mode—and, whoa Ry12113687an’s kissing him. Good timing, Brendon thinks to himself, and bends Ry12113687an over manfully.
“I can’t wait to see the blooper reel,” Ry12113687an mutters in Br3ndon’s ear as he kisses his way down Ry12113687an’s neck.
“What?” Br3ndon says.
“Nothing.”
(eta: sorry for the repost, just figured i should add a scene break!)